


Exhale

by charcoaleyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Autumn, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Comic-Con, Crying, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Driving, Drunken Kissing, England (Country), Eventual Smut, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Friendship/Love, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, Hiding Feelings, Intense Sexual Attraction, Jealousy, Kissing, Leedus, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Music, New York, New York City, Passion, RPF, Romantic Friendship, Rough Kissing, San Diego Comic-Con, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smoking, Smut, Stargazing, The Walking Dead RPF - Freeform, United Kingdom, Winter, the walking dead - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:57:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoaleyes/pseuds/charcoaleyes
Summary: Addiction is hard. Especially when it's one you know you should break. When it's something you don't want to – it's nigh on impossible.This is the final(?) instalment of theNicotineTrilogy.Nicotine: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994449Inhale: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8897620





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. No offence intended to the people written about, or their friends/family. None of this happened aside from in my imagination, and I have nothing but respect for these guys.

**Norman {Prologue}**

It was weeks - _months_ before he touched you.

_Touch_ you? It was almost as long before he could even _look_ at you properly. Before you could look at each _other_. Those dreamlike moments in your apartment that wintry afternoon in New York when the two of you had agreed that yeah, something was going to happen here, had felt like  exactly that – just a dream. One that you had been rudely awoken from the very second that Andy had left that day. He'd gripped your forearm as you'd told him to have a safe journey home, tears in his eyes, nodding with tight lips as he'd stood in the doorway, not wanting to leave but knowing that he had to.

So yeah, it was weeks, _months_ before he touched you.

But he had.

He still mocks you sometimes for not sleeping with a pillow. _No pillow? What are you, some kind of savage?_ he'd chastised, the first time he stayed over. Not that you'd slept much that night anyway. Now, you lie in bed on your stomach, white sheets draped across the small of your back and twisted around one of your calves. Your forehead's resting against one of your forearms, and the weight of another body is pressing you further down into the mattress, the heat and solidity of it warm and delicious. A bony knee nudges against the middle of your thigh, and you grunt in response, because that's all you have the energy for right now. He's a naturally early riser, one of those weird _The best part of the day!_ kind of people, and with the way he's gently beginning to brush his lips against your shoulder muscles, you can sort of see his point. The tickle of his dark, greying (and God that greying is _so_ fucking sexy) beard makes your back muscles quiver, and his tongue flicking against your skin has a better effect on you than any alarm clock.

You know that nothing good can last forever. You're not a pessimist by any means – you take each day as it comes, regard it as a blessing that you've ended up in this place, with that job, and those people, when maybe there was a time when it looked like your life was never going to turn out anything but shitty – but you're realistic enough to know that everything wonderful has to be balanced out at some point. Like having a kid with someone like Helena and you splitting up when he was still a baby. Like having a job you adore but being told by television executives to play the game. Like forming a connection with someone as perfect as Andy and having to live with yourself because of what you're doing.

 

**Andy**

**[London, February]**

You've been flat out since getting to London from Somerset, the crowds and skyscrapers of the capital just not as exciting and vibrant to you as they were in your younger years. Your theatre visit for Hamlet (after leaving you'd idly wondered how long hyperactive Norman would have tolerated live Shakespeare – would even five minutes have been a generous estimation?) and the Love Actually thing you'd promised Richard you'd do had kept you in the city longer than you'd originally intended. You'd agreed to do Walker Stalker again, for the home fans, you'd said, but the possibility of brief snatches of time here and there with Norman had convinced you as well.

Fairly quickly you realise it was a mistake. You're rushed from panel to photo ops, only vaguely aware of Norman and Jeffrey on the balcony above as you joke your way through some of the bizarre questions that you receive from the audience below the stage. And then of course there's _Do you feel like Jeffrey has stolen Norman from you_ , and you feel your stomach twist itself in knots and your breath catch in your throat. Fuck, you handle it impeccably, only the tiniest sliver of distate in your mouth - you're not an actor for nothing.

And despite everything that had been said and almost-done between you and Norman, the jealously still niggles at you like a ragnail. One you can't risk picking at because you know it would cause pain and scars. Perhaps selfishly, you feel like here, in _your_ home country, _you_ should take priority. It's irrational, you're aware of that. You're an adult and shouldn't feel schoolboy jealousy because your best friend – or whatever Norman is to you – is playing with someone else.

It's mid-afternoon before you have the time and opportunity for anything more than a hello. The venue is stuffy and your denim shirt is clinging damply and uncomfortably under your arms, so much so that you feel paranoid that you smell. The small rucksack that you threw onto a chair in the green room first thing this morning is thankfully still there, and you press a fingertip against Norman's arm while he's in the midst of licking the buttercream off the top of a chocolate cupcake, imploring him to spare you a second; you have something to give him.

“Me?” he asks, wide-eyed and already grateful.

You hand him a book with an orangey-yellow cover. The dust jacket is ripped and faded, the telltale musty smell of old books emanating from the pages. He looks at it, eyebrow raised.

“Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats,” he says, holding the book out in front of him for a proper look. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. He sounds like a little child reading the title of their first ever book.

“Being that you're a crazy cat lady, I thought you might...”

“I do, I do!” his face beams as he looks up at you, clearly thrilled. “This looks awesome, thanks dude!”

“I mean it's not an early edition or anthing, but you might like the illustrations, you know, Edward Gorey did them and... I don't know... just, cats and art. Maybe it's a silly gift.”

“Andy. Shut up, I love it. Looks cool as fuck.”

He slaps your arm and carefully puts the book into his rucksack. You watch as he handles it delicately, trying not to rip the already slightly torn sleeve. He might not read it, but when you were browsing in an old, dusty bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, running your hand across the spines of once-loved, faded books and flicking through their yellowing pages, you had seen it and immediately wanted him to have it.

**Norman**

After he gives you the cat poem book, he asks you if you'd heard the question at his panel, the one about how you've abandoned him for Jeffrey or whatever the fuck it was, and yeah, someone had mentioned it to you; laughter thick and disbelieving in their voice. _Fuckin' harsh, man. Poor Andy._

_Nice little trip for the two of you_ ,he says, picking at a cheese sandwich, refusing to make eye contact. His baseball cap is pulled over his eyes. _A free soujourn to Europe_.

_Like I didn't come to London for you,_ you reply under your breath.

He looks up at you at last, shitty convention catering suddenly forgotten.

“What do you mean?” Andy asks. “It's not like you've got the time to travel to Somerset, is it? Or call in for afternoon tea.”

“That's not what I mean. I came for _you_. Because I wanted to get some kind of fuckin' sense of you. Not seen you for months, man. I come to England because... it's _you_.”

He steps back from you, and you can't articulate what you mean very well, you never can, but he's so fuckin' smart, intelligent enough that you don't need to. Don't need to tell him that he's in the cracked grey pavements, the puddles on the ground, the blue-black clouds in the slate sky above. Andy is colour - the denim blue of his eyes (and that shirt you gave him that Rick now wears), the golds and ambers of Georgia in Fall, the garnet slosh of Merlot against a glass - but this is the land of his birth, his real home; and so you almost want to lie down, let it absorb you, ask it to seep into your bones so you become part of the earth that bore him.

He smiles, in a resigned _I give up_ way, and takes a step forward. He rubs his long fingers across his chin, and sighs heavily.

“God damn you, you _confound_ me, Norman Reedus.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry man, it's just that...”

“Don't be fucking sorry,” he implores. “ _I'm_ sorry, I wish I could stay here but I've to go and film this Red Nose Day skit _thing,_ and I don't know if I'll see you until we're both back in Georgia.”

You nod, because God fucking forbid you ever ask for anything you want or say the things you should at the right time. You're suddenly exhausted at the prospect of hours of fan contact that you normally thrive on.

“At least come outside for a smoke before you go?” you venture.

He relents (he always does), and follows you, even though it's cold and slightly drizzly outside. You don't even need to speak during your cigarette breaks; usually the silence is more than comfortable, but the smoke above your heads is thick with words unsaid.

“About New York...” he ventures, taking a long drag so he doesn't have to look at you.

You take one, two, three quick puffs. Nervous smoking.

“This the part when you tell me you regret it?” You don't give him time to respond. “I don't regret it, just for the record. Feel like fuckin' _crap_ about it. But not regret. Sorry if that's... I'm a piece of shit, I know.”

“You're not a piece of shit, Norman.”

“Am, though. Guess I have a knack of ruining shit that was perfect until I came along, huh?”

All you hear is him saying _I can't listen to you speak about yourself like that -_ and the yard where you're smoking is deserted; an empty black Mercedes SUV parked in front of the gate at the back of the venue, and you both throw your cigarette butts onto the ground at the same time.

“This isn't your fault,” he tells you. “And neither is this...”

He leans towards you, brushes his lips quickly against yours. You're suddenly aware of the colour of his pale blue denim shirt against your black shirt; dark and light. You feel like you're corrupting him.

“We can't,” you hiss.

“There's nobody here.”

“Not what I meant.”

You both move further down the wall that you'd been leaning against, to an alcove. You can hear typical London sounds – the shouting from some nearby building site; the sirens of a passing ambulance, but all you can _feel_ is Andy close against you. He stares at you, his eyes boring into yours, albeit shadowed by his baseball cap, and oddly you find yourself wondering if the blue of your eyes is the same; maybe yours are more grey and... then he's pressing his mouth against yours again. Your back is against the cold wall, and you close your eyes. You close your _lips_.

“No?” he murmurs; questioning you.

Your eyes remain shut. Then you say _Please_ and you open your eyes and grab onto the collar of Andy's shirt as he kisses you again, feather light, testing the waters and _oh fuck_ , there are no waters to be tested here, you're ready, you've always been ready, you've dived in head first and are more than willing to drown.

Anxiety rises up within you - you think about whether his full lips are compatible with your thin, pale ones, but that thought swiftly becomes irrelevant, because he's brushing his mouth so softly against yours that it almost tickles, and you can only bear that for so long before you hear yourself growling _Kiss me properly, fucker._ Andy's beard is surprisingly soft against your chin as he briefly nuzzles his beautiful nose against yours, and then he dives in, suddenly half-feral, his tongue slipping its way inside your mouth, asking for no invitation, just taking. Your hands go from his shirt to the back of his head, pushing off his cap before tangling your fingers in his wiry brown-grey curls and bringing his face in closer to yours. His lips are slightly chapped but they're plump and delicious, moving against yours slowly, only occasionally making a soft smacking noise. Your head is light and you've no idea if it's from lack of oxygen or from the mixture of guilt and joy you're feeling; all you know is that you feel dizzy and slightly disembodied. He gasps into your mouth and his breath is warm, slightly tobacco-tinged, but sweet. There's another gasp from him as you dare to suck his bottom lip into your mouth, and you're amazed that you resist the temptation to sink your teeth into the fleshy treat. _Fuck, that goes straight to my_... he moans, not able to finish as you shove your tongue back into his mouth, no holding back now. His hands fall on the small of your back, trapped against the wall you're leaning against. You jerk your hips forward a little, flicking your tongue against his. There are clashes of teeth and your lips begin to ache from his stubble, but you can't stop.

He pulls away slowly, and your lips suddenly feel cold and slightly sore. He rubs his nose, looks around nervously, and takes a step back.

“We have to go back in,” he says, and you nod.

“Yeah we do.”

“I'll figure out what all this means, Norman. I promise.”

You make a sucking noise through your teeth.

“But not this weekend, right? Or between now and going to Europe.”

Andy looks up at you sadly, and you wonder which of you feels the worst about all of this.

“In Georgia,” he tells you. “I'll work things out by then.”

You don't believe him.

**Andy**

**[Madrid, March]**

The smell of alcohol is emanating from Norman's pores. He's sweaty from nerves and beer, and when you take his hand for photographs, it's clammy. You're not sure who the drunkest is - Norman, Greg or Jeffrey, and the booze just keeps coming before and during the panel. You didn't want to come to Europe for this; it's not your bag in any way, shape or form (not nowadays, anyway), and if you'd known that it would be such a circus, you would have pulled rank for the first time ever, and refused to go. Stupidly, you'd imagined yourself meandering around the cobbled streets beside Sao Jorge Castle in Lisbon, perhaps with Norman by your side taking photographs, or finding some spare moments for a stroll in the Buen Retiro in Madrid.

Your stomach ends up around your ankles somewhere when a fan asks if there are any on-set affairs. _Only me and Norman_ , you had replied. Hiding in plain sight, you believe that would be called, and by telling the almost-truth you'd never felt so completely, disgustingly deceitful.

You know that after this press tour, Norman and Jeffrey will be off on their bikes, filming their RIDE episode, and your nose itches with the thought of it. You dig your fingernails into the palm of your hand as you think of deserted tables outside tapas restaurants, empty bottles of fine Rioja and dozens of stubbed out cigarettes in ashtrays. You can practically hear Jeffrey's husky drawl and Norman's sometimes-annoying snorting laughter. What will they talk about while they're rampaging across Spain? You? Will they laugh at your lack of interest (and skill) when it comes to motorbikes? You're just not the type of man to throw a leg over one of those machines through choice, even if you've been on the back of Norman's several times; your thighs gripping the leather seat in a mixture of excitement and fear, and Norman's ass pressing against you, right there between your legs.

It's the last night, and you all gather around a rustic wooden table in some secluded backstreet restaurant that's down a darkened cobbled alley. The air smells like poplar trees and black tobacco, and inside you feast on fat olives, piquante patatas bravas, and melt-in-the-mouth serrano ham that you find yourself eating far too much of as you sit across from Norman, watching his thin lips become gradually more stained with the Riberadel Duero he's knocking back greedily. There's a candle burning in the middle of the table, rivulets of thick red wax running down the old green wine bottle it's standing in, and the aroma of garlic and onion is thick and comforting. Greg and Jeffrey are outside smoking, and you find yourself reaching across the table and taking Norman's wine glass from him.

“What the... ?” he begins, but then stops. You guess he sees your serious expression, and your furrowed brow.

Your fingers drum nervously on the table.

“I wish... that you weren't going.”

Norman cocks his head to the side, and smiles that winning smile he so reluctantly gives (unless it's aimed at you); the one that shows his fangs.

“Aw c'mon. It's only a couple of days, man.”

“I know, I know.” You trace a fingertip around the rim of his wine glass. It's something you've seen in films, and you don't know why you're doing it now. Maybe so you don't have to meet Norman's eyes. When he tells you softly that actually, it's not just he and Jeffrey going, it's _her_ as well, you're glad of the distraction.

“Well. Have a lovely trip,” you say, standing up. The scrape of your wooden chair against the tiled terracotta floor makes you wince, and the volume of it is such that you don't think Norman hears you telling him that you'll see him back in Georgia. Some time.

**Norman**

Spain and Portugal are a fucking mess. There are throngs of noisy, frantic fans everywhere you go. The panels are a clusterfuck - unscreened questions and unfiltered fans. You're pretty fucked up, you drink whisky and beer non-stop, but you're practically sober in comparison to Jeffrey, who can barely speak. Andy's been sticking to Diet Coke the whole trip, but even he's getting carried away with how raucous and disorganised everything is; dancing, and reading out insane poetry about Rick and Michonne. You're making your way through a pack of screeching girls when someone asks if there are any affairs within the cast, and when you hear Andy's reply you're glad that you're hammered enough to be able to cope with it.

He starts acting weird with you the minute the two of you are left alone in that little restaurant where you ate way too much steak and talked too much shit to anyone that would even vaguely listen. You thank the red wine for that, that little bit of added drunken confidence that Andy always tells you you are fine without. _People are interested in you, Norman. People are interested in what you have to say. I wish you didn't need a drink to truly believe that._

Fuck, he gets you. He gets _to_ you.

He leaves the restaurant abruptly, and when Greg and Jeffrey stagger back inside, bringing the smell of oily pavements and Marlboro smoke with them, you make embarrassed excuses on his behalf. He's knackered, you say, stealing an Andy word he taught you. _Cream crackered, knackered... it means tired, Normski._

Greg asks you if you want to go onto a bar, try to get into some mischief, but you feel agitated, and you're worried about Andy and the way his mood had darkened over the course of the evening.

Back at your hotel room, you can't settle. Sleep is out of the question and you don't have the patience to flick through all of the television channels to find something you can understand. You consider a shower, but then lie back on the bed to scroll through your Instagram tag instead. You consider messaging Jeffrey, but something stops you. That something being that it's not Jeffrey's company that you want right now. You love Jeffrey; his laconic drawl and his sense of fun. He's everything you want in a friend. _Just_ a friend.

You take off your clothes and manage to find a new black tee and clean jeans amidst the mess of your bag. Pulling them on, you shove a fresh pack of cigarettes into your back pocket and make your way to the lift at the end of the corridor. Room 245, he's in. Andy didn't tell you, but you always, always find out.

You have to knock a few times before he comes to the door. His hair's damp, and sticking up at the back, and you apologise for waking him.

“I wasn't sleeping,” he tells you, beckoning you in. “I've just finished showering.”

The room still smells like mint shower gel and his deodorant, and in turn Andy smells fresh, amazing. He's in a loose white v-neck tee, and blue and white checked boxer shorts. You glance over at the bed – it's still made, albeit a little rumpled, and you're happy to see a well thumbed-through copy of The Master and Margarita on the bedside table. You lent him that weeks ago, and it pleases you to see that he's brought it.

“What was that about earlier?” you ask.

“What? Me leaving the restaurant?”

“Well _yeah_. And the fuckin' rest.”

“The rest? Such as?”

“Come on, dude. The question about Michonne. _She licks me clean_? For real?”

“It was a _joke_.”

“It's just not the kinda thing you normally say.”

“I'm not sure what you want me to say, Norman. I made a joke and you've taken it in a dirtier way than I intended and...”

“Would you like that?”

“What?”

“If she licked you clean.”

“Norman, of _course_ not. She's...”

“...What about me?”

You watch Andy's adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows hard. His mouth opens and his breath hitches. You feel like what he says maybe, just maybe, isn't what he really wants to.

“You're drunk, Norman. Perhaps you should go to bed. I'll text you in the morning.”

He doesn't.

**Andy**

**[Georgia, April]**

When filming of season 8 begins, it's nigh on impossible to fall back into the easy banter that you and Norman usually have at this time of year. It's normally a time for you to tell him how your orchard is doing, what the children thought of their Christmas presents, and he'll tell you everywhere that he's been on his motorcycle, the mischief he got up to at home in New York, and how grown up Mingus is becoming.

Now though, you feel uncomfortable mentioning your home life. You don't want to act like your impromptu visit to New York and the kiss in London didn't happen, but at the same time, it's a fucking huge... _massive_... _gargantuan_ elephant in the room (or trailer, as the case may be).

You can't have your cake and eat it, you have to repeatedly tell yourself. You once read that infatuations could last anything between two days and two years. For a long time, that knowledge kept your head level, kept you from throwing everything good in your life away on nothing more than a whim. It was the period where people were most likely to be irrational or make lapses of judgement, the article had said. You'd been there and done that in the past, before marriage, and you remembered the fall-out. Between two days and two years, and all this shall pass, you told yourself.

But it had been longer, much longer than two years since you'd met Norman. At what point did the infatuation cease being just that and become _there must be something more here_.

_You're the greatest person I know_ , he's told you more than once. Even once was more times than you deserve. Coming from him though, one of the kindest, selfless, most giving (albeit infuriating, unreliable and easily distracted) people you've ever met, a small fragment of you almost believes it.

You like to (try to) live up to the impression he has of you. You want to see yourself the way he does; see it reflected in your _own_ eyes when you look in the mirror as well as his. You're more naturally humourous when he's around; you try even harder during takes; you're extra kind to the fans that wait outside the set each day. It's like he _nourishes_ you. But it's also like you can't bear for him to see you be anything but wonderful.

It's a strange limbo you find yourself in. All you crave is to be alone with him, yet things are more comfortable when there's somebody else there. Someone to bounce off, to laugh comfortably with, because Christ knows things are as strained as fuck between you and Norman right now. The air is positively stodgy with things not said and almosts. Ironically when Jeffrey is there, things are a hell of a lot easier, you both have someone to talk to rather than each other, even though under normal circumstances you'd survey him through narrowed eyes, tensing up as much as you could without your back fucking arching like a cat's; hissing at him in a possessive _he's mine_ kind of way.

Norman used to watch all your scenes being filmed. Sometimes, if he knew you were due to film a pivotal scene, he'd be on set even before you were. No mean feat for lazy Norman. You're more than used to him hovering at the edges of filming, helmet-haired and smoking. He still comes to watch, just not when you have scenes to do with Danai... _those_ kind of scenes, anyway.

You call him out on it - mostly, if you're completely honest with yourself, to get a reaction from him.

“Does it bother you?” you ask. “You know it's only acting.”

He's sitting on the sofa in his trailer, legs crossed and a cigarette between his fingertips. He's tired, sweaty, antsy from the scenes he's been filming. He stares at you for longer than is comfortable, and God knows you almost never know what he's thinking, but when he has that serious look, you know even less than normal. His eyes are dark, his brow furrowed. The bags under his eyes worry you more these days than they used to. He doesn't speak as he takes a drag of his Parliament and blows smoke out, all the while staring, staring, staring.

“Yeah. Yeah, it bothers me.”

“It shouldn't. It's Danai... she's...”

“She's _Danai_ ,” he snaps. He really doesn't need to add anything more.

You're leaning against the wall, close enough that he can throw you a cigarette. He can always sense when you want one. You take a stupidly long time lighting it, trying to think of what to say and failing. What can you say? In a way, he's right. Danai is other-worldly, and both you and he have long been in awe of her.

He's still staring at you with those menacing hooded eyes of his. It's un-nerving and unfamiliar.

“I see the chemistry,” he says. “I'm not stupid, despite what people think.”

“Onscreen chemistry doesn't necessarily mean anything, Norman. As an actor you should know that.”

“Are you saying it didn't mean something with us?”

You have no answer for that.

**Norman**

When your trailer becomes your second home again, you can barely even stand him sitting beside you on your couch. You can barely even fucking _breathe_. That stupidly easy rapport the two of you have always had suddenly disappears, to be replaced with nervously heaving chests and stammered words. Every time you try to say something funny, your sentences become jumbled and you feel your cheeks beginning to burn, your face flushing and fucking ruining the cool exterior you try so desperately hard to have.

He's left his jacket at your place in Newnan after coming over for coffee, and you throw it on, fuck it, you've never cared what you look like, so fucking what if it isn't your style. You pull the collar up around your neck so it's just resting against your chin. You find yourself burrowing down further into it, shoving your hands deep into its pockets, spreading your fingers in the vague hope he's left something in them, something that means nothing to him that he's long forgotten about, but would feel like a memento to you. It smells slightly of aftershave and there's a hole in the collar. It's wonderful. You find a piece of paper in the pocket and pull it out, finding a crumpled receipt from your favourite local coffee shop. Two large lattes (with extra shots) and a slice of chocolate fudge cake, because he's an idiot who buys you treats to satiate your love of chocolate. You remember that afternoon. There had been drizzle, but the two of you had sat outside on your decking anyway. The cardboard coffee cups had heated up your hands, steam rising up into the air along with your breaths. Andy had been laughing at Eye in the Dark's displeasure at getting wet in his pursuit of a particularly juicy looking bug he'd wanted to catch, and you'd turned your head to watch him when he didn't realise you were looking. That aquiline nose, the pink, slightly chapped lips, the alluring way his hair was really greying at the sides now... he had no clue how handsome he was.

You're lying in the bath in your dimly lit bathroom at just after 1am, a glass of Chilean Malbec in your hand. The fans might laugh if they saw you now, and you're almost tempted to take a photo of the bubbles and tealights for Instagram. Fleetwood Mac's playing from the speakers in your bedroom, your fail-safe band for when you want to relax, and you feel sleepy and vaguely content as you close your eyes, thinking _Andy Andy Andy_.

When you hear your phone ringing, you almost contemplate not answering, but you sigh and get out of the tub, leaving a trail of sopping wet footprints across the tiled floor. It's him.

“I... I don't know why I'm calling...” he croaks down the line.

“You realise what time it is?”

“Yes, I do. I've just left the set. I'm sitting in my car at the side of the road like an arsehole.”

“Why are you not going home?”

“There's no-one there tonight. So I suppose - I mean you might say... I'm at something of a loose...”

“...Come over.”

* * *

He doesn't need to knock the door; you've been waiting at the front window for him since he hung up on you. The fire is lit, you're playing Janis Joplin now, and there's plenty of wine left. You usher him in, feeling like this is clandestine, like you don't want the neighbours seeing, as if Andy's not been here dozens of times before.

Maybe not at two in the morning, though.

You're shirtless, but you've pulled an old pair of black jeans on, and they're hanging off your waist, as they always do after a few months of filming.

You open the door and he walks in. He looks nervous, and both of you are silent. Normally he'll plonk himself down onto your sofa, or make himself a coffee in the kitchen that he knows as well as his own. But now, he slowly makes his way into your dark lounge. You're right behind him, waiting for him to sit down, or say something. He does neither, just stands in front of the fireplace, wordlessly looking up to meet your eyes, and how many times has he done that as Rick? Looked towards Daryl and communicated with no need for speaking?

Wine has made you brave, and it feels like this is now or never. Andy came here, in the middle of the night, sober. That has to count for something, right?

His arms remain flat against his sides as you move in and brush your mouth against his. His feet are still rooted to the floor, but he's not backing away. You can feel his chest rise and fall as you move closer, until your bodies are pressed against each other. You place a hand on his shoulder, sliding it down to his chest and lowering your face so you can kiss his neck. He likes that, gives a slight moan, and then a louder one as your tongue probes his collarbone. You dare to pull the neck of his t-shirt down, and he lets you, even tilting his head to expose more of his bare skin to your teeth and tongue. Sucking lightly at his warm skin, you gradually push him backwards until he's leaning against the wall. He's not speaking, and he's barely moving; simply letting you kiss and touch him whatever way you want. He smells and tastes clean and slightly minty. Janis is pleading _Maybe_ now, and you can't help but think the same. Maybe. Maybe now.

And then, you feel his hand lightly touch the small of your back.

“Norman,” he mumbles.

“Mmm.”

“ _Norman_ ,” he repeats, and you reluctantly break away. He takes your hands in his and asks you to look at him.

“I shouldn't feel like this. But I can't stop. I just want...”

“Want what?”

“I want this.”

Somewhere down the line you can sense that there are three other words that you might want to say, might want to hear Andy say to _you_. But these three words are more than enough for now.

You press your forehead against his, and he chuckles lightly.

“Oh God, Norman. What the fuck are we doing?”

“Who the fuck knows?”

“I've never... not with... you know? I need to take this slowly. This isn't easy for me.”

You close your eyes, breathe in his scent as you press your cheek to his. And then you kiss him, really, properly kiss him. And this time you're not hiding behind a wall, or in a trailer where anyone can walk in. You're truly alone.

He kisses you back hard and deep, so much so that you can barely breathe, and it's not the first or even the second time you've kissed, but it's the first time you can truly sense his loss of abandon. You already knew he was a good kisser, but this is another level entirely; his tongue is curling around yours, and he pulls away to suck on your lips, panting into your mouth. He gives a short laugh, and when you open your eyes, his are open too. His thighs are parting enough for you to place a leg between them that he lightly begins to move against, chasing what you can feel he's starting to need. His feet stagger backwards, and under any other circumstances you'd rip the shit out of him for his lack of co-ordination, but now's not the time.

“ _Let me_ ,” you hear yourself saying. You're barely audible, but from the way Andy practically whimpers as you lower yourself to your knees, you know you've spoken loudly enough.

“Where the f... oh _God_.”

Your eyes are level with his straining shorts, and you pull them down deliberately slowly along with his underwear, enjoying Andy's ragged breathing.

“Look at me,” you say, and he does. He looks shell-shocked, maybe even scared.

He wipes the hair from your eyes gently as you place a kiss on the tip of his dick. In a way, you wouldn't give a shit if he grabbed the side of your head roughly and thrust himself into your mouth, but he's too respectful, too tentative for that. His hands are shaking as he rests them against your shoulders. You push his boxers down a little further so that the tops of his pale thighs are exposed, running your fingertips down them, feeling the dark hair on his skin.

You take him in your hand, licking up and down his length before taking all of him in your mouth. He groans _Oh Jesus, those cheekbones_ as you do so, and the filthy moan he makes has you hardening in miliseconds. He's smooth, uncut, and paler than you'd imagined. You're not used to this, so your jaw is quickly aching and your knees burning. You suck the head of his cock, not an expert by any means, but he seems to be enjoying it, and in turn, you do too. You try not to pull away with an internalised, twisted kind of revulsion when there's the first bit of moisture on your tongue; instead you slide your lips further down his shaft.

“Jesus Norman, oh, fuck, FUCK! Yes, just fucking...”

He warns you before he falls apart, his fingers digging into the base of your skull as he comes, but you keep him in your mouth, letting him spill onto your tongue until he's finished. You swallow hard, trying not to visibly grimace. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as Andy starts babbling and rubbing the back of his head nervously.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says breathlessly. “I didn't mean to, I...”

“It was hot,” you growl, looking up at him, t-shirt up around his waist and shorts damp and sticky. His face is red and his hair's a mess. If there was a mirror nearby you'd be able to see how dishevelled he'd made _your_ hair. You're craving a cigarette now but your own cock is a priority.

“Need to use the bathroom,” you state, standing up. Your knees crack.

Andy looks down, his gaze immediately being drawn to the bulge in your jeans.

“Do you want me to...? 'Cause I've never...”

“Wouldn't ask you to.” _Not yet,_ you don't say.

He licks his lips, and reaching out a hand, pulls the zipper of your jeans down. His touch is feather-light at first, inexperienced, until you twine your fingers through his and guide him, two hands doing the work; your hand and his, until you gulp out _Gonna come_ , and you expect him to snatch his hand away but he keeps it against yours until you're finished.

You're both embarrassed as you hand him some toilet paper from the roll you get from the bathroom.

“That bath you had was pointless,” Andy eventually says, but there's mirth in his voice. He's sitting on the edge of the couch now, looking up at you as you stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor.

“Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I'm the one who came here.”

“I'm not expecting anything after this, dude. Just... maybe that was an itch that needed to be scratched and that's it, you know?”

“I don't think that's it. Do you?”

“Fuck no.”

“Good, good. That's good.”

Andy sits back, pressing his fingertips together as if in thought. He shakes his head and you'd swear he was about to start crying.

“I don't think I can stop myself anymore.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Andy**

A week or two passes, and then you're both sitting in Norman's lounge again. He's excitedly telling you a story about a near wipe-out he had on his motorbike during the filming of RIDE, and he can barely meet your eyes; a tremble in his voice that would probably be imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him as well as you do. You recognise the nervousness - it reminds you of talking to girls you'd liked on the first day back at school after the summer holidays. Back then, that emotion would have been mixed with the smell of new pencils and shoe polish, now it's freshly opened bottles of fake blood and newly washed costumes. He tells you all about the _Gullah_ people he met, and it's one of the reasons he constantly surprises and enraptures you – even now, with all you have learned throughout your life, he can still teach you about things you've never heard of before. When he's enthusiastic about something, he waves his arms around as he tries in his sometimes bumbling, inarticulate way to explain what he wants to say. You adore listening to him. He tells you on occasion how smart you are, sometimes leans over your shoulder as you browse the British broadsheets on your iPad, but in his uniquely Norman way, he's sharp as a tack too.

Then he points to Eye in the Dark and asks if you think animals will ever learn to talk and if so, what creature would speak first, and you cackle right in his face.

“Animals _already_ talk, Norman. You can talk, can't you?”

He snorts, shakes his head and takes a swig from the bottle of Corona that's currently leaving a wet mark on the varnished wooden floor.

He's listening to _Goo_ again and Sonic Youth's sound is gritty and raw, how you imagine this thing between the two of you is sometimes. Hard and abrasive, under your tongue and behind your eyes. A slam of bodies against a cold white wall, the gnash of teeth against skin and bones. Somehow this music doesn't fit his Georgia home, not with the way the late afternoon sun makes dappled patterns on his hardwood lounge floor. It's too stark, too uncompromising. He sees that you're not into it, not today anyway – and he always puts what you want first, so he asks what you want to listen to next.

You're lounging against the cushions, running shoes unlaced and bright green socks falling down around your ankles. Norman regards them with a smile before scrolling through his iPhone in search of a different album to play. You wrinkle your nose.

“No vinyl?”

You love the crisp, clean surround sound of whatever fancy speaker system Norman has bought himself (or been given for free, more than likely) but gosh, the crackle of vinyl. It takes you back to lying on your stomach on your bedroom floor as a kid, excited as fuck about the new Prince album, S _ign o' the Times_ taking you into a world that you were completely unfamilar with, but enraptured by. It reminds you of autumn evenings in this exact spot, the delicious scrape of a fingertip as it cleans the needle, the creak of the arm as it finishes one side of a record.

“Sure, dude.”

 _Ziggy?_ he asks, and you nod. _Hells to the yeah._

You arch your back, pushing your body further back into the sofa with a contented little groan. You watch Norman kneel down to put the record on, skipping straight to _Lady Stardust_ because he knows it's your favourite on that album. His black jeans are hanging off his arse – how does the man not have any clothes that fit him properly (the disproportinately wide shoulders and skinny waist you tell yourself) – and there's a cigarette dangling precariously from his lips; a centimetre or so of grey ash threatening to drop onto the green rug any second now.

“This is about Marc Bolan, right?” you ask, and Norman nods.

“So they say.”

“ _Oh, how I sighed when they asked if I knew his name_ ,” you gasp as he approaches, clumsily clambering on top of you to straddle you; the beer having made him confident.

Neither of you are particularly tall, in fact you're both slighter than most people think, so the sofa is more than large enough to take the both of you comfortably. Norman turns the cigarette around, places it between your lips, and you take a long drag, then another. The way he stares at you as you do so has you somewhat breathless, his fingertips still hovering just below your bottom lip. One more drag and then he smiles and stubs it out in the ashtray on the end table.

“I'm sweaty from being on the golf course all morning,” you warn, but Norman shrugs. What's a bit of sweat when he loves being slathered in much worse as part of his day job?

“You smell good,” he says huskily. He does too – he (almost) always does, despite what people think. Clean clothes and whatever unique scent his oddly warm body throws off.

You're in a pair of loose shorts and he pulls them downward easily. He wriggles in your lap as he unzips his jeans, and you roll your eyes at that first flash of pale, lightly haired skin. _Christ man, do you ever wear underwear?_ He chuckles in response, that laugh that creases you every time. You're both getting better at not feeling bashful and shy when it comes to this. Sometimes you still find yourself creased up with laughter thanks to sheer nerves. Norman will roll his eyes indignantly and say _Gee thanks,_ but he's ten times worse than you are, saying inappropriate things and faltering with shaking hands any time he so much as runs a fingertip across your chest.

He kisses you eagerly, tongue demanding and moist, and cants his hips forward gently, back and forward, back and forward. Each movement of his body just makes you kiss him harder - you've never kissed anyone with such hunger; nor been kissed by someone with the same longing. You understand why some (okay, _lots_ ) of women have always been powerless to stop themselves from coming back for more from Norman. His hands are gripped on the back of the sofa at either side of your head, and you have yours at the nape of his neck. He's panting softly and you're getting harder at the sound of how much he wants you.

 _Let me take care of that,_ he whispers, and you arch your hips up to meet his.

When it's good like this, oh Christ, it's good. Better than good. _What's a word for better than good?_ you think to yourself; your normally rapid, verbose brain feeling compromised thanks to the way that Norman's trying to wrap his hand around the both of you. The angle isn't quite right for either of you to get the kind of pleasure you need, so he just takes care of you, and as he pumps his hand up and down, you remind him that you have to go home in these clothes, but just as easy you decide that there could be talk of a coffee spill, Norman's t-shirts would only be a little loose on you if you had to change into one and Jesus, you're going to come shamefully quickly if he keeps doing this and... _fuck_.

He tells you to hold still, just wait, wait for him. You're sticky and breathless, but he's gasping against your neck as he jerks himself off in your lap. It's hot, so hot that you don't even touch him, you just _watch_. You watch until his come is on your lower belly and his warm mouth leaves your skin.

His breathing is laboured as he finally pulls away from you, arm above his head and strands of hair sticking to his damp forehead. He flops onto the seat beside you, zipper still down.

“Think it'd be cool, you know?”

“What would be?”

“If animals could talk.” He points a socked foot at the cat. “Like, what would that asshole say? What would a monkey say? ...You know?”

You open your mouth, too many witty ripostes on the edge of your tongue. But you can't get them out because you're fairly confident that your heart has just swollen to at least three times its usual size.

“I... I... yeah, I know, Norman.”

**Norman**

**[San Diego, July]**

When you read the script and find out that Daryl and Rick fight, you wince. You wouldn't want to see Andy's beautiful hands come to any harm, and not only that, filming's been hard enough lately; you both know that Chandler's been written out, and it's led to fractious silences all round on set. Andy's been in such a state of heightened emotion that you're damn near scared to look him in the eye let alone try anything else.

You're terrified that he's retreating from you, not that you would blame him if he did. He doesn't join you all for the customary morning swim at San Diego Comic Con, let alone come silently to your room in the evenings like you'd hoped he would.

During the Walking Dead panel, you can see he's struggling with his emotions. He's laughing along with you all while Nicotero's speaking, but it's forced, and you can sense that he's finding it hard. You see him sit back and dip his head, almost as if he's trying to stop himself from being seen, and you reach out from behind Greg's back, giving him a quick nod of reassurance and squeeze of his hand. You wink in an _I got you bro_ way and he flashes back an appreciative look.

The two of you are swamped by press and screaming fans the second you come offstage, and you feel frustrated at not being able to get a second alone with him. He's just ahead of you, kindly signing autographs and taking selfies with fans, even though it's all too clear that his heart's just not in it today. You wave to fans, but you're glad that your RayBans help to obscure the concern on your face. For once you're relieved that security staff quickly bundle both of you into a black SUV, and you speak to him rapidly, knowing that the journey back to the hotel is only a few minutes long.

“Andy, you okay? I know things have been fucked lately,” you babble breathlessly. “Like, me and you is probably the least important thing on your mind.”

Andy glances at the driver warily, and you wave a hand, dismissing his concerns. You're behind glass, and barely speaking audibly. The stifling weather, hot lights from the stage, and stress of the crowds has the car smelling thickly of both of your deodorant-tinged sweat. Under normal circumstances this could be hot.

“I'm finding all of this rather difficult, what with everything that's been going on,” he explains, with a sad shake of his head.

You lean towards him, tempted to take his hand. You don't. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

He cuts you down, and it fucking stings. You feel paranoid that there's a _Not with you_ hanging in the air somewhere.

Out of the car, you ask him if he wants to go into the hotel bar for one, but he turns you down.

“I need a shower and room service. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He walks away, seemingly unable to meet your eyes, and leaves you standing there in the middle of the lobby. You hear the hubbub of approaching fans, and hope you can make a getaway before you spend the next hour posing for selfies. Not today.

Greg and Jeffrey wave over, motioning for you to come to the bar, and you agree, knocking back two shots of Jack with them. They laugh and joke with you, and you join in, but your laughter is hollow and your smile is forced. You want to be one of those pathetic lovelorn bastards who sit on a stool with only the barman to spill your woes to, ordering shot after shot after shot until the marble surface is littered with empty glasses and your wallet is empty. You have one more drink before making your excuses and going to Andy's room. He'll be mad. You _know_ he'll be mad. You don't care.

Your head is only slightly woozy as you make your way to the elevator, corridor, and then his room. When he opens the door and sees it's you, he raises an eyebrow. He's still in his white t-shirt. You can't stop yourself from thinking how good it looks against the tanned skin of his body. The hair on his forearms has turned gold in the sun, and there's a tiny patch of sunburn on his hairline. You enjoy noticing the tiniest little things about his body.

“Is everything okay?” he queries, his words hanging in mid-air as you barge your way into the room.

“That's what I'm here to ask you.” You look around the softly lit hotel room, seeing a pack of headache pills and a glass of water on the nightstand. That'd explain why the drapes were closed, then. Some rolling news channel is on the television, and you pick the remote up irritably and switch it off.

“I just don't particularly want to be here this weekend,” Andy replies. He looks tired; hangdog. You notice that his suitcase is on the floor, opened but not unpacked.

“'Cause of Chandler?” You sit down on the couch and throw your rucksack onto the floor.

“And the rest.”

“The rest? What's the rest?”

Andy sweeps a hand across the room. “Everything. All of it. All of _this_.”

You chew the inside of your lip. “Me?”

Andy sighs, his eyes closed.

“You know how I feel. It's just that... I have a tough time coping with it all. I feel like the show's falling apart at the seams, and maybe that's my fault because I spend all my time feeling guilty instead of concentrating on work.”

You throw your head back, sighing. You're generally slow to anger, but it's either get angry at him or let yourself become consumed by guilt too. For his family, for the way he feels, for everything.

“Making me feel like the bad guy again, huh? Yeah, fucking great. All my fault, yeah? I twisted your fucking arm, that it? _This is all on me_.”

You stand back up, prodding your finger against his chest.

“It's not, Norman,” he protests weakly. Of course it's not all on you. Don't be ridiculous.”

“I just don't want to keep feeling like the bad guy, dude.”

“You're not. You never have been. I mean, I'm no angel. _I've_ been bad.” There's an air of desperation in Andy's voice now, and normally that would make you back down in an instant, but right now you feel like digging your heels in and not letting him away with it. You feel like _provoking_ him.

“Then don't make me feel like an asshole for wanting this. For wanting MORE,” you growl.

Andy stands, arms outstretched, a pleading expression on his face now. “What more do you want? You HAVE me. I'm _here_ , aren't I?”

“ _Now_ you are. Today. Can't tell from one day to the fuckin' next whether you want this or not.”

You're so close to him now that another step forward and your noses would touch. You can feel his breath on your face, see the fine lines around his eyes. You try to avoid looking into the blue of his pupils because you're scared of what you'll see there – rejection, hatred, maybe even revulsion.

“I want this.” Andy's voice cracks.

You shake your head wearily. This can't end in a blandly decorated hotel room in San Diego, but his indecision is destroying you.

“The goalposts keep fuckin' shifting, man. If this is just about jerking each other off a few times then I'd rather know now. I dunno, maybe I should just go.”

“Don't go. Don't fucking go, Norman. You know that it's more than just that.”

He reaches a hand out, and some part of you, the irate, jealous part, swipes it away. It's the part of you that can bring Daryl to life, you guess. And, just like Rick, Andy reacts with the same rage.

“Don't fucking push me away. DON'T.”

“Or you'll what? Sick of being dicked around by you. I'll end this shit myself if I have to.”

Andy's mouth widens into an 'O' shape. He wasn't expecting that. You don't know whether he'll try to placate you, or react with similar rage. The latter.

“Oh, fuck you, Norman,” he spits.

“Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

You see the exact second he snaps. He rolls his eyes and cocks his head to the side. Then he dives... full on fucking _dives_ at you. His hands grip onto the collar of your black shirt and he slams you against the wall so hard that the lamp on his bedside table rattles.

His mouth is quickly on your neck, hot and biting. Almost immediately he's tugging at your shirt and you help him with the buttons. It gets thrown onto the floor by one of you, and then it's _his_ t-shirt that gets discarded. He bows his head to tongue at your nipples, and you put a hand on the back of his head, encouraging him and holding him in place. Fuck, he's already figured out your most sensitive spot, and your moans of appreciation only encourage him more. He has the fullest, most luscious fucking lips you've ever had on your body, even better than any chick's you've known and fuck knows that's saying something.

You writhe against the wall, his mouth still on your skin and his hands on either side of your ribcage. You start to jerk your hips upwards against his, and he pulls away, leaving shiny patterns of saliva over your chest and nipples. His mouth is even redder than usual, a wanton pout.

You're breathing unevenly as you look at him, seeing his unruly curls and the little trail of dark hair that goes from his navel to the waistband of his trousers. You reach out, hook a finger behind his top button, and pull him closer.

“Fuck me,” you plead breathlessly. “Just fuck me, I can't wait for this any more.”

You both sink to the carpeted floor in a mess of clashing teeth and bitten lips. Andy wriggles out of his trousers and helps you pull off yours. His beard scratches your chin as he kisses you, but you don't care. His hand snakes between your legs, rubbing you over the underwear you actually bothered to wear today; up and down, up and down, and you're pretty good at self-restraint when it comes to fucking, but this is too much. Andy, A _ndy_ is going to fuck you tonight and you could come right now with the thought of it and you need to get up before you make a fool of yourself and...

“The bed.”

You both manage to make it onto your feet, weak-kneed and panting into each other's mouths. He takes your head in his hands, kissing your forehead, your nose, your mouth, your chin, before moving his lips back upwards to the side of your face that's fuck-full of titanium, and he kisses that too, the most tenderly of all.

He pushes you down onto the bed, straddling you. His strong forearms are either side of your torso and you arch up to wrap your legs around his waist. You've never been so pleased that the two of you are matched in height. As you kiss, you smooth a hand down the back of his head, across his shoulders, before grabbing the back of his thigh in an attempt to get his crotch closer to yours so you can grind up to meet his equally hard cock.

“Come on,” you implore, and he sits up to pull down his boxers, lifting a leg up so he can remove them entirely in the most ungainly way you've ever seen. The temptation to laugh quickly ends when he grabs your ass, yanking your jockey shorts down. You wiggle from side to side in an attempt to help him, and as he throws them to the floor, he giggles.

“Idiot.”

As he kisses you again, your cock is rigid against your stomach, and when you glance downward, his is dark pink and poking against your upper thigh. You slap his lower back to stop him.

“What?”

“In my bag...”

“Huh?”

“In. my. Bag.”

He catches on to what you mean, and raises an eyebrow.

“You always bring... _that_ , or were you expecting other company aside from me?”

“Told you I was waiting, man. Always been waiting.” You can hear your voice shake.

The moments where Andy is on his knees on the floor as he rifles through your bag and gets back onto the bed are torturous.

“Ready?”

“For _years_.”

Neither of you know what the fuck you're doing, least of all Andrew fucking Lincoln, but you fumble your way through it in a mess of wet lips, spread legs, and the rustle of paper. There's slippery fingers, mumbled curses of _This shit's ALL over my hands_ and embarrassing moments when your back starts to hurt so badly that you have to tell Andy to hurry the fuck up with his tongue before you collapse on top of his fucking _face_.

He's good with his mouth, something that doesn't surprise you with those lips; even dipping his tongue inside of you as he tries so eagerly to get you ready. You can guess he was an A-plus student at school such is his need to improve and to please.

You tap his shoulder and when he lifts his head to look at you, his face is bright red and his lips are huge thanks to his exertions.

“Are you alright, Norman?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just go for it man, c'mon.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

His head is resting against your inner thigh and you nudge it away.

“Get a move on.”

“I'm a bit...”

“What?”

“ _Scared_ , Norman.”

You snort.

“ _You're_ scared? Fuck, dude, you got an easier job than I do.”

He moves upward to kiss you deep and hard, and you think about where his mouth has just been, but truth be told it's fucking hot as hell and makes you even harder than you already are.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” you breathe, and you raise your knees up and spread your thighs wider.

Andy kisses you once more, takes himself in his hand, and then _Oh fuck, fuck, oh my God_. You grab onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin and your teeth clenched. It's more difficult, _much_ more difficult than you thought; the pain on the edge of being excruciating, so you ask him to hold up, just for a second.

“We can stop...” he ventures, but you shake your head from side to side on the pillow.

“Your fingers... I need...”

Andy complies with your request, stretching you once more, probing inside so far that something makes your hips jerk up off the bed, and then you know that it might be enough. You tell him to go for it, and reach back, grab the headboard and push yourself towards him. He makes a gulping noise as his cock breaches you, and then you tell him to wait, so he does, and then you tell him to start again, and he does, oh God he does, thrusting slowly at first, barely moving inside you as you get used to his size and the brand new sensations, but then you find yourself needing more; there's an aching need inside you and you know you need Andy to fuck you hard and fuck you good to satiate it.

He grabs your jaw, slipping a finger inside your mouth which you suck on. You're rewarded with him pummelling into you.

“You good?” he gasps.

“Good.”

“You feel like fire,” he whispers, and as a response you wrap your calves around his body, bucking upwards to meet his thrusts and get him deeper inside of you. Your hands on his body are slipping off now thanks to sweat. There's a bead of it dripping from one of his curls onto your cheek. Your hands have a death-like grip on the headboard but you move them to Andy's back, rubbing the bones portruding from his spine, and then down to caress his ass, pull it towards you. There's a pressure building inside of you, like you need to let go, deep in your pelvis and in your thighs. Your head is pressed hard against the pillow as you open your mouth and try to gasp for air.

“Right there,” you beg, as Andy hits you at a certain angle. “Right there, _fuck_...”

Andy's on his knees between your legs, his breathing becoming more labored. The cords in his neck are strained and you can tell he's really close to coming, maybe even holding off for you. He kisses you again, then licks his thumb, circling your nipple with the digit so it becomes cool and erect.

“So fucking tight,” he breathes. “I can't last much longer.”

“Andy I'm close, can I...”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He's still in you, still fucking you as he grabs your cock. It's swollen flat against your stomach and leaking heavily. He thrusts shallowly but you can tell he's trying to stop himself from coming before you do. You watch as he pumps you two, three times; the engorged, slippery, purple head of your wet cock going in and out of his encircled hand. Your orgasm is almost blinding, come spilling through Andy's fingers and all over your belly and upper thighs. Your body immediately feels rubbery and you lie there trembling as Andy eases himself out of you. The empty sensation you feel is odd and slightly unpleasant, but soon forgotten as Andy gets up onto his knees, condom gone, and dick in hand.

“Where do I... ?”

It's awkward as fuck, why did you think this moment would be anything but? But you sit up, slap his hand away from his dick and replace it with yours. Andy's head lolls back as you jerk him off. It doesn't take long, only seconds, before his come is joining your own on your lower stomach.

He collapses down on top of you, body shaking with tiredness and release, and who knows, probably fucking shock as well. You feel the same, but you run a hand down his back, making soft _Mmm_ noises. He looks up, resting his chin on your chest.

“Oh my God, Norman.”

His body is warm and pleasantly heavy on top of yours as you cradle him in your arms. He cups your face with his palm and in turn you brush the curls from out of his eyes. It's an unexpectedly tender moment, and one that you realise you needed. The bottom of the bed is a mess of rumpled sheets and somewhere along the line one of you broke the vase on the nightstand. Fuck it. With some difficulty you lift a leg and wrap it around Andy's calf, trapping him there.

“I dont even know what to say after that,” he murmurs.

“Good, 'cause I'm not a post-sex talker,” you kid, and he tweaks your nipple by way of a response.

“Sorry for being a twat,” he whispers, brushing his lips against your earlobe.

“You should be. _Twat_.”

“I wouldn't be, if this wasn't all so complicated.”

You nod, lifting his hand and placing a kiss on his palm.

“I know, I know. You going to regret all this?”

“No. I just feel... changed. For good.”

He tells you _I don't know if you're my downfall or my salvation_ , and you understand, but instead of speaking, you kiss him softly, and when you're both able, he fucks you again, slower and smoother, and you come so hard in his arms that you think you might burst into tears.

Even if it is a downfall, you feel saved.

**Andy**

**[Costa Rica, August]**

The Costa Rica trip has been planned for weeks. You, Norm, the family. Part of you feels like you should cancel; your gut and lungs and throat filled with the black, cloying sludge of guilt. But everything is booked, and you don't want to see your kids disappointed any more than you want to give up the chance to be in a tropical paradise with Norman.

Two nights before you leave, he calls and tells you that he's been seeing someone. Seeing them in more than a random hook-up kind of way. You knew that, he'd kept you more than informed when the whole thing started out. You thought that it would have burned out ages ago in a mess of ignored calls and accusations of cheating, and that bringing her to Spain was an aberration, but Norman seems to have broken a pattern with this one.

“So bring her,” you hear yourself suggesting. Even in your own head your voice doesn't sound like yours. You stand and stare at the half-packed suitcase on your bed, wanting suddenly to up-end it and spill brightly-patterned shorts and miniature bottles of shampoo across the floor.

“...the _fuck_?” Norman exclaims.

“It's what _normal_ people do, isn't it?” you reply. “Do you think that it would be any odder if she was coming, than if she wasn't?”

“You know if I invite her, that she'll come, right?” Norman sounds vaguely exasperated. “I mean, she'd be on the fucking 'plane before I even finished asking. You _know_ that?”

“I know.”

“She'll be all over me, right under your nose. You okay with that?”

“Jesus Norman, don't fucking flatter yourself.” Your tone is sharper than you'd intended. What happened in San Diego had turned this thing into even more of a pressure cooker full of jealousies and things not said. You hate it. You hate how wanting him so badly manifests itself into little niggles that plague your brain and keep you awake at night. Only two nights ago he was blowing you while you showered together, and now _this_.

“Might be nice for you to at least act a little jealous.”

“I can hardly act jealously when my wife is going to be there, can I?” You keep your voice to a low murmur.

“Oh whatever, stop being so fucking reasonable.”

The sharp words are all forgotten about of course, eventually. The first day in Costa Rica is unbearably tense; fake smiles and awkward introductions all round, but the rapprochement comes with your and Norman's solo trip to the turtle sanctuary. In torchlight, he reaches for your hand in the dark and slides fingers in between yours briefly. You can feel that he's holding his breath as you watch a big mama turtle lay eggs, and you are too. Then he's sniffing, wiping his eye quickly as if he's gotten sand or something in it, but you know that he's overwhelmed with emotion. Him and animals, he's the same as you that way... _Don't start me, you **dick**_ , you implore, but you're crying too.

The following evening the two of you manage to get away on the pretence of a post-dinner, pre-cocktails walk. The setting sun has turned the sky burnt orange, and the air is heavy with the scent of the molasses that the locals pour onto the dirt roads in this area to get rid of dust. Norman always gives groans of pleasure when he gets a whiff of it, thanks to that sweet tooth of his.

You find a private spot to sit on the beach, behind some palm trees. The sound of the ocean gently lapping at the sand would normally relax you to the point that you would doze, but so far not much has made you relaxed on this holiday; not the paddle boarding, not the sandcastle-making, and certainly not the dinners when both you and Norman's companion speak to one another with abnormally wide smiles and clenched teeth.

“I shoulda just come on my own,” Norman concedes, concentrating on letting sand run through his splayed fingers so he doesn't have to meet your eyes.

“You absolutely have the right to bring whomever you choose,” you tell him. You hate that this is the conversation you're having with him, when you should be appreciating the beautiful amber and coral sunset from underneath a parasol outside some bar, cigarettes in hands and voices thick with mirth.

“Don't want to _need_ to bring someone, though,” he shrugs, tucking his chin against his chest in a little-boy-lost way. “I guess I just want to have someone when you're not there.”

“I thought you liked being alone, Norman. I didn't peg you as someone who always needed to have someone.”

“When it comes to not having you, I do.”

Your breath catches in your throat at that. Sometimes you pretend to yourself that it's just about the sex for him. You know it's not. And you know that if you truly believed that, you would be doing Norman a massive dis-service. Would it be any easier if it _was_ just about that for him? No, you decide. No it wouldn't. Because it's not just about that for _you_.

“Do you honestly think it's better that I have someone?” you exclaim. “You think it's better when I'm hurting them and betraying them? All you've done is added another person to this mess.”

You hope the underlying jealousy in your words isn't as obvious as you think it is. You hope it _is_ as obvious, too.

Norman stands up, wiping sand from his hands and jeans. He puts his sunglasses on and silently walks away.

**Norman**

**__**_Smoke?_ he texts you. You're still in bed even though it's after 4pm. You reluctantly get up, pulling on whatever clothes come to hand, before cleaning your teeth and sticking your entire head under the cold tap. Looking up at the mirror, you wince. Andy always says he likes your face, in all its strange-featured glory. You don't.

He's waiting for you at the bottom of the terrace of your private villas; the late evening sun behind his head like a halo.

“Nice shorts,” you quip, not stopping for him.

He follows you along the dirt path from the terrace to the edge of the rainforest. The closer you get, the noisier the frogs and crickets become. Andy's been this far into the jungle before, but you haven't. It's uncomfortably humid and your t-shirt is soon soaked through. From behind you can smell him – hot skin and coconut sun cream. You'd both agreed not to do anything together on this trip, but the temperature and smell of fresh sweat makes it difficult to think of anything better; fingertips sliding downwards on a sun-warmed body, kisses that taste like guaro, Andy's face illuminated by moonlight as he leans in towards you.

His voice rudely interrupts your thoughts.

“I feel like you're condemning me for not making you my entire life even though I'll never be entirely yours,” he says.

You sigh, stop, and turn around to face him at last. He comes to stand by your side, a sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“Don't you think that both of us could say that about the other?”

Andy's eyebrows raise and he jerks his head back, as if surprised by your insight. And then he nudges you, shoulder against shoulder, and it feels so nice, so natural, that for the millionth time you remember that significant others aside, there isn't one fucking bit of this that doesn't feel right. Parts of him you've tasted. Parts of him you've _swallowed_ , you think to yourself. The two of you just work, just fit, just _are_.

You both slip into semi-comfortable silence as the bushes and trees around you get denser. The bugs are eating you alive but Andy seems to be on a mission now, muttering to himself _I'm sure it's around here somewhere_.

And then, you stop with a gasp.

“Exquisite, isn't it?” he says.

You're standing in front of an imposing wall of moss-covered rock that has water tumbling over its cliff edge and into the pool in front of you. All around is bright green, lush vegetation, and blue morpho butterflies flutter around your heads like confetti. Only Andy could take you to a waterfall as stunning as this.

You turn to look at him with wonder. You notice that his eyes are red-rimmed now but you've never seen them look so blue. You both sit down on a rock to dangle your feet in the water, the spray from the fall splashing across your bodies. You can feel that your ankles are a little sunburnt, just like your nose and the back of your neck. Andy told you to put suncream on, of course he did, but you didn't pay any attention, _of course you fucking didn't._

“So you think this is a mess, huh?” you mumble, Andy's words from the night before still stinging and itching and prickling your skin with little barbs.

He lifts his legs from the clear, cool water and crosses them, fingers scratching through the grey curls at his temples. “I was a dick to say that. I don't think it's a mess. It's just that sometimes I want to get back to who I was before I knew you.” He shakes his head ruefully. “All of this is... just so beautiful and passionate, but it's flawed. I don't know...”

The sun finally hits the horizon, how fucking fitting, you think, as the sky and your head fill with grey. You're fixated on the way the bottoms of your trousers are fraying. You could have bought a pair of fucking shorts. But no, you just found a pair of scissors and sheared those fuckers right across the calves, fuck it. You make a mess of everything. You've made a mess of _him_ , for fuck's sake. Andy, the Great Unflawed. Tarnished and guilty, because of you.

“Sorry I've ruined everything.”

“You haven't, at all. I'm just sorry that it means I've become the kind of person I never thought I'd be.” He pauses. “Remember we said that this wouldn't have a happy ending?”

You purse your lips, exhale, your chin quivering. You dip your head so that tendrils of damp dark hair fall over your eyes. _Don't start crying._

“This is an ending, then? The end.”

He doesn't answer, just bites the side of his bottom lip.

“Oh Andy...”

“Well it can't be, can it. The end?” He sounds destroyed. “Not when we work together. Not when we see one another almost every day. The only way for this to ever, truly end is if I go back to...”

You visualise packed suitcases and cast parties to say goodbye, and you feel nauseous and light-headed at the prospect of him walking out of your life.

“No, man. You've worked your ass off to get to where you are. It's _your_ show. Say the word and I'll speak to Scott. I'll tell him I want Daryl to be killed off. I'll call him right now, say I'm out.”

“Don't ever fucking suggest such a thing ever again, Norman. The show's your life.”

“Yours too.”

“It's just a job. The best part of it all is sitting right beside me right now.”

You laugh bitterly.

“If that's the best part of it, that ain't saying much. You could walk away, I don't see why you don't.”

“Because Norman, I _love_ you.” He sounds exasperated. I mean, you knew that he loved you; you've told each other that dozens of times over the years, but this is different. A painful, yearning, without-you-I'm-nothing _ache_ of a love.

“Oh dude.”

“Yeah.”

You're about to tell him you feel the same when a terrifying, guttural sound like a dying moan suddenly echoes around the trees, and you almost jump out of your skin.

“What the fuck?!” you frantically look around, your heart racing as you stand up and back against a tree. “Someone getting fucking murdered out there or...”

You stop, suddenly noticing that Andy is doubled over with laughter, arms wrapped around his stomach. His giggles become a croak, and he has to wipe tears from his face. He arches his back as he stands up, giving one last guffaw. His face is bright red from the exertion of his hysterics.

“It's a Great potoo,” he says, failing to sound serious.

“What? A Great what- _who_?”

Andy cackles the word _bird_ at you before he lapses into a coughing fit.

You can feel your heart rate going back to normal, and you throw your cigarette pack at him, aiming square at his head. He ducks and you miss. Typical. When he stands to face you, you're awestruck by how beautiful he is for the millionth time since you've known him. When he smiles, you give up your brief resolve to let him go.

“Stupid fuckin' bird,” you grouch, but it's killed the tension, and now Andy is smiling at you softly.

He clears his throat.

“We should go back.”

To your surprise, he takes your hand for the first part of the walk back, the secluded part, the part where it's just you and him - where all of this isn't wrong, where it doesn't affect other people, where you're wild and blissfully thrilled that he chose _you_. Even the creatures and insects and that stupid fuckin' bird stay quiet for your stolen private moment with him, as if in reverence.

“Neither of us are going anywhere, okay?” Andy says firmly. “We'll figure something out.”

You don't argue, God of course you don't. You'll willingly and gladly take whatever he wants to give you, whether it's everything or almost nothing at all.

He squeezes your hand, leading you back to real life with words from poets he reads and you don't.

“ _In wild and secret happiness we stumbled._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - and apologies for the barrage of angst in this chapter! (Sorry not sorry).
> 
> Andy quotes _The Imperfect Lover_ by Siegfried Sassoon at the end, if anyone is interested. I recommend.
> 
> Comments will encourage me to finish editing the final part, hint hint.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter.
> 
> I'm thrilled that the posting of this has coincided with some IRL Leedus happenings, but oh I will miss writing this a hell of a lot. The sensation of loss after a fic has been completed is a strange one, alright.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has read this, left kudos, or commented. It means a lot.

_'And the sun took a step back, the leaves lulled themselves to sleep and Autumn was awakened' - Raquel Franco_

**Andy**

**[New York, October]**

You had good intentions after Costa Rica to cool things down with Norman, you swear you did. You tell yourself that even if those intentions came to nothing, at least you had them in the first place. You wonder how your sense of morality has become so twisted. You've told Norman that it's not his fault, but it is. Oh, it is.

It's his fault because he leaves little notes on your trailer mirror for you to find after he's long gone. It's his fault because he makes you howl with laughter at how angry he gets when you consistently beat him at ping-pong ( _One day, fucker,_ he says _. One day._ ) It's his fault because you've never been looked at the way he looks at you with those gunmetal blue eyes.

One thing that most people don't realise about him, but that you clocked pretty much from the outset, is that underneath the court jester act lies a shy, rather self-conscious chap. In a way, the two of you both buck the impression that some people may have – the assumption that you're oh-so Britishly ultra-reserved, and that Norm's a brash, loudmouthed American. In reality, you've been told you're a natural comedian and storyteller, while _he's_ the one that complains of the jitters before TV interviews or red carpet events. After the New York Comic Con panel, he's still laughing about how you came onstage dancing. Well, 'dancing'. He tells you that he could never do that. Not even after an entire bottle of Jack. Not ever.

_Just as well_ , you had replied. _You'd fall over with those two left feet._

You get far too much enjoyment from embarrassing him. And you know that it's a little cruel sometimes, that you can take the piss almost too much when you can see that he's already squirming with unease, but God, how you adore the way the blush spreads from his cheeks across his whole face, leading to his eyes squeezing themselves shut as tight as possible before he covers his face with those large hands, or pulls a hood up over his head and buries himself down inside.

It's that need to wind him up that sees you describe Daryl as Rick's puppy at New York Comic Con. He's already nervous – you can tell from the way he's hiding behind his RayBans and twisting his hands around the microphone as he answers questions. You're surprised he doesn't go bright red at your comment, but you figure that the whiskey and coke he'd been knocking back beforehand was to thank for that. In your head you know you're dicing with danger, that Norman can be loose-lipped at the best of times, but you can't help it. He looks too good with his freshly washed hair and new _Eraserhead_ t-shirt, and maybe jibing at him is a somewhat pathetic attempt on your part to get his full attention, rather than Jeffrey, who's plonked in between the two of you. You know you'll bicker about it later, when you and he are alone again, and he'll tell you _Sometimes I think you get off on that kind of shit_ , and you'll feign innocence, promise him that you won't be such a dickhead in future, but that's a lie even bigger than when he claims to hate your ribbing.

_Puppy, huh?_ he questions once you're both back at his apartment, and then he's singing – _growling_ \- the line _Now I wanna be your dog_ in your ear, and you curse yourself as you realise that you've lost this one. He's taken your piss-taking with good grace, as he always does, only to disarm you with _this_. He pokes a finger under the neck of your t-shirt so that you have no option but to follow him to the coffee table where his iPhone is, and soon the dirty, grubby guitar of The Stooges is blasting out, Iggy rasping along with Norman, and then he backs up against the white wall of the lounge, taking you with him.

He turns around so he's facing it, grabs your right hand and shoves it down the front of his jeans. He's half-hard and you're not too far behind. Your hand meets the upward jerk of his hips and you breathe hotly against the back of his neck. The song's about to end but he's still breathing _I wanna_ as you hitch up the back of his t-shirt with your other hand. There's the _zzzzt_ sound of a zipper going down and Norman raises an arm so that he can lean his forehead against his elbow. You hear him sigh and this could be over oh so quickly if you did what he wanted, if you did what he's bucking up against the palm of your hand in a desperate search for. _Going to do what you're told? That what you want?_ you hiss. He groans by way of a reply and as a reward you stroke a fingertip down the length of him. _You're not going to move. You're going to let me do what I want, in my own time. You're not going to come... You're going to be a good boy._ He makes a strangled noise, and behind him, you smile wickedly, even though this is starting to kill you as well. _Jesus fuckin' Christ, Andy_ he gasps as you deliberately snatch your hand from out of his jeans, lick your thumb slowly, and then put it back, rubbing the head of his cock. You make a tutting noise. _Did I say you could speak, Norman?_

If you weren't so hard yourself, if you weren't deeply concerned about coming in your jeans like some kind of fucking horny teenager, you could make this filthy game last much, much longer. Your face is buried in Norman's hair, and it smells like eucalyptus-scented shampoo and faintly of cigarettes. You bite the neck of his t-shirt, and he feels it, feels the damp fabric cling against his body, and all but begs you to bite his skin instead. _Just fucking rip the shirt, I don't care_ he whines, and you stretch the material downward, sucking on the freckled skin of his wide shoulders, letting your teeth graze against muscle before nipping gently. _Bedroom_ , you state, trying to keep the begging tone from your voice because you're meant to be the one in control here. He turns away from the wall, chest rising and falling, and his face reddened. He can barely meet your eyes as he motions for you to lead the way to his room, and for the umpteenth time you are staggered by how he's so fucking shy when it comes to this thing between the two of you.

Why be so shy about something he's _so. fucking. good._ at.

“You're okay with this?” you check. He nods, says _Yeah, yeah yeah yeah_ in that way of his, and grabs your fingers to lead you into his bedroom. It's a big step, and on the few occasions you've taken things this far together again since San Diego, you've always asked him first. It scares the shit out of you, it knocks the wind out of your lungs, it feels like you morph into another person, join an alien universe, when he lets you inside of him. So you can't even begin to imagine what _he_ must be feeling as you ask with a shaking voice if he has the... and he doesn't let you finish, just nods. _Always dude._

Soon, he's face down and writhing beneath you, moaning breathlessly that he doesn't think he can hold himself up for much longer. You wrap an arm around his waist, practically bent double across his back. Your other hand is clasped against his, pressed down onto the sheets, and he raises it to his lips to kiss it.

“Harder,” he begs. “Come on.”

You dig your knees into the mattress and arch into him. He gasps, his voice rasping, and he almost sounds like he's crying.

“Right fucking there,” he sobs. “Fuck me oh please fuck me.”

You stare at the demons on his back, wondering if they're _yours_ , except on the skin of the man beneath you instead of _your_ shoulder. The demons tell you to push in harder, to reach around him and start to jerk him off slowly, to whisper filth into his ear.

_Are you gonna come? Tell me you're going to come. Fucking beg me to let you..._

_Who the fuck am I?_ briefly flashes through your mind, but then Norman shudders and you feel his release fill your palm, warm and viscous. You can see his whitened knuckles as his fingers grip onto the bedsheets.

Norman recovers enough to roll over, sit up, and place his mouth on you hungrily. As his warm tongue digs into the slit, you find it hard to believe that the two of you managed to get to this place. But you fit together, you and him. You know what each other likes, use the same moves, but it never, ever feels boring. The way his cheeks hollow around your cock, the way there's a sheen across his lips caused by your pre-come... you will never get enough of it. He groans softly as you push yourself in a little further, gripping the base of your dick with his hand and bobbing his head back and forth as he sucks you. He pulls back, opens his mouth and lets his tongue lie flat, waiting for you to spill all over him, and you do.

There's a soft thud as Norman lies back onto the pillows, exhausted. He grapples for his cigarettes on the bedside table, and hands you one. You lie back down beside him, dark hair against dark hair on the white bedlinen, and light up with satisfaction.

“I thought post-coital cigarettes were just movie cliché,” you say with a dry chuckle.

The way you're lying, if you turn your head to the left, you can see the rooftops of New York against an early Autumn slate-grey sky from Norman's full length apartment windows. To the right, you can see _him -_ the puffiness of his tired eyes and the way you can notice his fair-haired roots betraying the darker hue that he keeps for the show. You find his tanned skin an intriguing mess of amateurish tattoos and barely-there hair, compared to your unblemished but too fucking hairy body.

You lean over to kiss him. His beauty spot, the scar on his forehead, the patch of bare skin on his cheek where his excuse of a beard refuses to grow.

He doesn't reciprocate, just stares at you, a reminiscent smile playing on his lips.

It makes you feel sad.

**Norman**

**[Georgia/Washington, October]**

You get completely shitfaced at that ridiculous photoshoot for Entertainment Weekly, dicking around by throwing chairs and fruit. The crew ply you all with glasses of champagne so you're extra-uninhibited, but all it does is make you and Andy fire loaded glances at each other as he dances too close for your liking with a stunning-looking Danai, and you react by letting Melissa feed you bunches of grapes, like you're a modern day, zombie-killing Dionysus.

During the later stages of the photoshoot, Andy's jumping up and down like a hyperactive child, and the EW guys spend almost an hour trying to get you and he in front of the camera for some special Rick and Daryl pictures. You're sweating from the champagne and the lights, so when that dick glitterbombs you, it sticks to your skin and falls down the back of the neck of your tux itchily. And okay, okay – you very much fucking deserved that. They give you mini glitter-cannons, laughing when both you and Andy hold them over your groins in a phallic gesture. One more drink and you're not sure you wouldn't have pretended to jerk his off in slow, experienced movements. If only they knew. Maybe they do. On days like this it's really fucking hard to disguise it.

They give you a cake, and of course you end up covered in red velvet. Andy feeds it to you; squashes great handfuls of it right into your face so that it's sticking to your skin in moist, red, floury globs. A runner informs you that there's a changing room, and in there, Andy, seemingly in some kind of champagne-cake frenzy, grabs you, presses his body next to yours, and slips his tongue into your mouth, tasting sour and sweet; alcohol and sugar.

“You smell like champagne,” you hum with satisfaction.

“You smell like...” he pauses, then snorts. “...vanilla buttercream.”

To steal an Andy word - what a _wanker_.

You know what? Andy isn't perfect. Sometimes he's pretty damn close to it - _too_ close, fucking bastard - but not all the time. He's _messy_. You'd imagined he'd be the opposite - you've always associated him with neatly pressed buttoned-down shirts lined up in drawers, and rows of colour-coded socks. But nope. You quickly get infuriated with soaking wet towels lying on your bathroom floor, and grey beard hairs flecking the sink.

“Didn't fuckin' tidy for an hour this morning for you to leave fuckin' clothes on the fuckin' floor,” you grumble, one stifling afternoon in Georgia when you both have a day off from filming.

Andy's sitting on your porch, sipping iced tea, smoking (he hasn't smoked since the last time he was here... or so he tells you) and flicking through a photography book he's found at the bottom of the large pile on your coffee table.

“ _You_ didn't tidy. The Roomba tidied,” he drawls, not looking up.

“ _I_ fuckin' picked your shit up.” You hold a mustard-colored sweater up and brandish it in his direction irritably. He finally looks up, and reaches out to snatch it from you indignantly.

“Well... you are a hogger of SHEETS!” he spits.

You can't help but laugh, as does he as he stands up, and before you know it you're flat on your back on the floor kissing him. He pulls off your shirt, throws it across the room, and laughs into your mouth as he half talks, half kisses.

“It's okay, the Roomba will get that.”

“...Asshole.”

“I'm about to make a _right_ mess, Norman.”

“ _Fuck_ , Andy.”

After, he helps you pack your shit up for the trip to Washington. He tells you to pack a suit and throws your Minor Threat t-shirt into the wash basket. _I can't believe that they're letting you into the Smithsonian,_ he says.

In DC, he waxes lyrical about history, his eyes alight as he speaks passionately about the World War I Centennial exhibition he'd gone to see the previous day. Later, you see him equally, if not more, happy at seeing the Fozzie Bear puppet, his voice going up an octave as he implores you to _look_ , and your heart does a little judder as you think about Andy as a kid, maybe asking for a Fozzie toy for Christmas, or watching _The Muppet Show_ on some British TV channel.

He wasn't even meant to be going to the Smithsonian for the donation of Walking Dead props. Gimple had told you that Andy had said he had family commitments as a reason not for going, which you'd more than expected, and not begrudged whatsoever. Smiling for cameras like a performing monkey isn't his bag, you know that. But then he'd found out that you were one of the cast members going, and he'd said _I have that late filming season panic_ and you'd understood. The borrowed time. The _'what's the point of buying too many groceries when this house will be empty in a few weeks'_ feeling. The annual sensation of that kind of specific dread.

**Andy**

You fly back from Washington together, and in your head you count how many weeks filming there are left when you both get back to Georgia. The flight is barely two hours long, but within fifteen minutes you've already read the inflight magazine and feel bored. Norman nudges your elbow, producing an earbud. You nod, and you both put one in each ear. Soon, Norman's sleeping, hat pulled down over his tired eyes. His body starts to slowly move to the left, so that he's leaning against you at first, before putting his head on your shoulder. You're about to jerk your body upwards so that he wakes up, but then you decide to just let him be. This means nothing. To anyone looking on, it's just a cute thing between two mates, something that happens on aeroplanes all the time. It's nice. His breath is pleasingly warm against the small of your throat, and you close your own eyes, imagining him kissing it softly. Tom Petty's singing _Here Comes My Girl_ and you stop thinking about how many days filming are left, how many minutes, how many seconds left when it's just you and Norman.

October. It's beautiful; Halloween-coloured – but melancholy, bittersweet; and you can't grip onto it for dear life to stop it from ending no matter how much you want to. Every year the same.

It's always a whirlwind of press, conventions, the new season's premiere, the last stretch of filming. Your body and your bones are ravaged by long, unseasonably warm days, and physically draining night shoots. You spend as much time as you can in Norman's house, and your senses are thrown into turmoil by the smell of the new bergamot candle in his lounge. You can even smell it off Eye's fur when he takes it upon himself to climb into your lap so he can clean his paws in peace, used to your presence by now. You run a hand down the sable fur on his back, half-waiting for him to hiss and scratch, but he nudges your belly with his nose, licks your wrist with his rough little tongue. Norman arrives back from the store with some beer and the buffalo wing bleu cheese chips that you like (gosh you miss sweet chilli Kettle Chips from home though) and you tear into them straight away, shoving handfuls into your mouth and snatching the bag away jokily each time Norman reaches a hand out to take some.

“We gotta pull an all-nighter tomorrow, dude,” he tells you just after 11pm, voice sounding tight and anxious. “So y'know... if you wanna go home, get a good night's sleep before...”

You idly poke at a loose thread at the bottom of your t-shirt. You want to go home. But you don't want to leave. There's not long left. There's never enough time, for fuck's sake. Snatched moments in trailers, holidays that are destined to end the minute you arrive, conventions and mandatory bullshit events where everyone's watching you speak, so you end up talking about nothing.

Your lack of response has Norman over beside you in an instant, eyes narrow with concern.

“Andy? You okay?”

You run a hand down your face and shake your head.

“What the fuck are we going to do?”

Norman's mouth opens slightly as if to speak, maybe to make a joke, but he can tell by your destroyed expression that it's not the time for that.

“What do you m...”

“I can't,” you blurt out. “I can't go back to another fucking winter of just phone calls. Then straight back into _this_ come April.”

The fire is crackling and Norman's even made you a cup of tea (badly, but God he really tried). You could stay here forever, sunk into the sofa, Norman's hands and mouth roaming over your tired body; whiskey and sex and smoking.

“My fucking head is always half here, in this room, with you. Then when I'm back in England and you're in New York, I don't know _where_ it fucking is for weeks. Come Christmas I start to feel settled again and I think about being here less... but then once I see the buds on the flowers and lambs in the fields, I know that I'll be in Georgia soon and it's all I can think about again. _You're_ all I can think about again.”

“Andy...”

Norman grabs your hands in his and presses a kiss against your knuckles. He's on his knees in front of you now, head bowed low; his lashes damp. You wipe a tear away from the outside of his eye, and press a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“I'm so fucked up,” you gulp.

**Norman**

**[Georgia, October]**

You both have to go to Walker Stalker Atlanta this weekend, and that's always a sure sign that the long spring-summer-fall is nearing an end, as if the gold and orange and yellow leaves on the ground didn't make that abundantly clear to the both of you already. _The trees are turning into skeletons_ , Andy mutters darkly one afternoon as you both ascend the steps into your trailer.

Your bike's in getting a service so he tells you he'll drop you home. It's been a long-ass week of night shoots, and you're a walking dream right now, your hand grasped around a tin of Red Bull or a coffee pretty much 19 hours of every day. Andy mocks you, says _Thought you were a night owl, Norman?_

You get into his car, poking a finger into the vents to see if there are any traces of glitter there. There aren't, so you quickly attach a Daryl Dixon air freshener (you bought like _fifty_ ) to the inside of the sun visor above the drivers' seat. A little gift for Andy to find on some sunnier afternoon, a way to remind him that even if you're not physically there, you're able to keep fucking with him.

You hook your phone up to his car stereo 'cause he tells you that he can't stand another second of the local classic rock radio stations.

“Wanna hear anything in particular, man?” you ask, as he slides into the drivers' seat.

“Something I can wind down to please, it's been a hectic day. I'm utterly fucking _done_.”

He has his reading glasses on, a look you rarely see him in, and a sure sign that he's beyond tired, just like you. As he pulls out of the parking lot, you glance at the clock on the dashboard.

“Fucking 4.30am,” you sigh.

It's still pitch black outside, and there are no streetlights on the back road that Andy pulls onto. It's so dark that you feel like you, he and the car are the only things in the world that exist. Some clichés are accurate.

“You've not picked any tunes yet,” he tells you, and you scroll through your music library. You nod to yourself as you find what you're looking for.

“D'you ever listen to something and it just feels like the tune that'd be playing at that exact moment if your entire life was a movie?” you venture. “Like right then in that moment, everything is perfect?”

Andy purses his lips and nods slowly.

“Not often, Norm. Not so much these days at all, really. But...”

He sounds weary from age and responsibilities, but cuts his sentence short as the song begins. The music is dark and eerie, not to mention uniquely British, and you'd stake your entire life on Andy approving.

_Walk in silence. Don't walk away in silence._

His face lights up when he realises what it is; tells you that the synth makes shivers trickle down his back like ice, that it reminds him of post-nightclub house parties when he was in his early-20s and on a comedown. You let him talk, content to rest your head against the passenger side window happily. You love listening to him reminisce; you love that a past him was maybe as wild as he thinks you are now. You'd half-like to know the person he was when he was younger and free-er, but then, you can't imagine any other version of him being more perfect to you than the one you know is.

The song finishes, and you hit replay. By the time he drops you home, a wistful expression on his face, you've listened to _Atmosphere_ by Joy Division almost seven times.

_Don't walk away._

You're almost at your front door when he calls you back. As you walk back down the driveway, he rolls down the window and you pop your head through.

“Those moments with music you were talking about?” His eyes are tired underneath the rim of his baseball cap; his face illuminated by the glow from the car dashboard.

“Yeah?”

“Like I said, I don't get them very often anymore. But when I do, like just now in the car... it's usually with you.”

**Andy**

**[Georgia/England/New York, November]**

Norman arrives home from interviews in Los Angeles just as you're about to leave his house after feeding Eye in the Dark his breakfast. You have a sneaking feeling that that fat black menace of a cat might just prefer you at this point.

Norman's so exhausted that he sits down on the hallway floor immediately, sliding downwards against the wall like he physically can't stay upright for a second longer.

“How was it?” you ask, putting a hand on his shoulder. He leans his cheek towards your wrist.

“Yeah, okay,” he croaks. “Same questions, as usual, you know.”

You _don't_ know, you think. Not really, not the way he does. You do the talk shows that you have to, that you're contractually obliged to, but not to the extent that Norman does. _Gotta put the promotion in_ , he says to you, but you wish he'd just say no sometimes.

You hunker down beside him so you can take off his hat and sunglasses. You wince when you see the shadows under his hooded eyes, so dark that they almost look bruised. You resist the urge to press your lips against the purpled skin.

You help him pull his t-shirt off and unbutton his jeans. He gives a snort and a hoarse “Now?”

You know that even he of all people wouldn't be capable of it at this precise moment, so you tut and shake your head. You let him lean an arm on your shoulder as he steps out of his trousers.

“Come on.” You grab his clothes and motion for him to go to the bedroom. As Norman crawls into bed, he's already almost sleeping as he mumbles something about you owing him a surfboard.

“We'll talk about that tomorrow,” you soothe. “Want a lullaby to help you sleep?”

His mouth turns up at each side slightly in a sleepy smirk. You take that as a yes and place his treasured vinyl version of _Rumours_ onto the record player, grinning to yourself as you place the needle at a certain point on the record so that _Songbird_ will play - even in Norman's sleep you're antagonising him by playing the British members of Fleetwood Mac, and you make a mental note to wind him up about Peter Green-era 'Mac when he's had some sleep.

You stand at the end of the bed momentarily. He doesn't snore, obviously you know that, but his breathing as he drifts off is soothingly pleasant. Looking at your watch, you see it's not even 7am yet. The morning is cloying and warm; bees already buzzing on the wild cherry trees in Norman's palatial garden.

Yeah, it's morning. But you climb into bed beside him, appreciating his satisfied moan as he grabs your wrist and clasps your hand against his stomach. There's a million things you could be doing instead – weeding the patio at your own home; ringing your agent about a play you'd like to do; making lists of what's staying here and what's going back to the UK.

You lie there until midday. Norman doesn't stir the entire time.

You're dreading the wrap party.

***

British skies are always clearer, like your head is when you're back in the UK. In the US, somehow you always forget about starry skies. In your Atlanta neighbourhood, the streetlights obscure anything celestial that might be happening above you. Now, back in your large garden in England, you say _Hello again you_ , greeting Ursa Minor like an old friend. _It's been a year_ , you whisper to Cassiopeia **.**

Looking up to the sky and finding the winter constellations is comforting because it means you're seeing them on the kind of crisply cold, misty English evenings that you love, but there's always an underlying melancholy there too. Each year, the icy cold feels like an re-set of life; a return to the norm after the surreal months of shooting zombies and getting eaten by bugs while a lunatic named Norman (your first ever Norman) laughs at you and passes you cigarettes.

When he telephones you, you're standing in the kitchen doorway looking up. There's a whiskey in your hand – the fourth of the evening, if anyone's fucking counting, and even Norman raises his voice in surprise when you tell him.

“Hard liquor? Not like you.”

“Well, this is the last one. What are you on tonight?”

“Two large bars of almond Hersheys and a Klondike Bar. Fuck man, this is why I'm chubby.”

“You're not chubby,” you admonish him. “A bit thick in the _head_ , but not chubby.”

“Fuck off,” he says. “I just love chocolate.”

“I'd never have guessed,” you joke. “I've watched you stuff your face with it more than enough times to know you love it more than anything.”

Norman pauses; a delicious pause, because he's a thinker whose pauses always mean something.

“I dunno, I love you more, man.”

“More?” you reply hoarsely. _Fuck_.

“Yup. More than chocolate... but slightly less than my cat.”

You tell him _You know that I_... and he says _Yeah Andy, I do_.

You hang up, wondering when _love you fuck you_ turned into just _love you_.

**Norman**

It's the first time Starbucks have pressed a red cup into your hand this year, and you cradle it happily as you enter your apartment, your cheeks pink from the New York cold. Chinatown is chilly as fuck this morning.

Your iPhone starts ringing, and you stroll over to the windows as you answer. The tips of your ears hurt from the icy temperatures, and you're regretting not wearing gloves.

“I'm watching a murmuration from the upstairs window,” Andy tells you. “And I'm cooking a stew on the Aga for later. Smells amazing, Normski.”

“Wish I was there.”

You don't wait for the _me too_ that's never going to come. He could want to say it. Or he might not. Either way you know that he _can't_. He has everything he needs right there and you don't need to factor in that.

You hear him clear his throat.

“I have an idea. Give me a second.”

You wait, hearing footsteps on a wooden floor, a few swear words, and the sound of something like tissue paper. He comes back onto the phone.

“Going to play a song on the record player. I'll hold it up to the speakers so we can both listen, okay?”

“You know there's probably an app so we...”

“Yeah but this will sound better. And I can't work apps.”

You tap your fingers nervously against the window sill as you wait, your breath fogging up the glass as you look outside at the rooftops. The music begins, and you recognise it from when you were filming _Cadillac Records_. Both back then and right now, you hear and recognise the painful longing.

_Something told me it was over when I saw you and her talking._

“Etta James,” you say.

“It is.”

You're about to sit down on the floor and light a cigarette, but his voice comes nervous down the line. _Dance with me?_

Andy can dance better than you. You already knew he could sing, whether it was jokily warbling _Like a Prayer_ down the phone at you, more giggles than singing, or properly joining in with Bowie when he had his earphones in listening to _Blackstar_ , the album the two of you had a shared obsession with all last year.

_You're fucking better than me at everything, asshole,_ you've told him before _. Singing, dancing, fucking ping-pong... everything._

You imagine him shuffling around in socked-feet in some study in his house in the English countryside, moonlight streaming through the window of his study.

“You actually dancing, dude?”

“Of course!” Andy chuckles. “Come on!”

“It's like midday here.”

“So what?”

You gently sway in time to the music in the middle of your lounge, feeling self-conscious even though no-one can see you but Eye. You're grateful it's a short song but at the same time it means that this odd little shared moment with Andy is over too quickly.

You hang up, realising that you'd forgotten to thank him for the flowers he'd gotten you when you'd come home from LA. The vibrant yellow roses in a mason jar were beautiful, and such an Andy thing to do.

You suddenly feel exhausted, wrung inside out. You were out last night, wasted off your ass on Jack (and the rest), and you tell yourself that that's why you're just going to get undressed and crawl into bed right now in the middle of the day.

You flop onto your stomach, your face pressed hard into the pillows that Andy made you buy. Your mind is whirling with too many thoughts, enough to send you crazy, so you reach for your phone and press play on the first tune you find agreeable.

A piano starts.

_You're going to reap just what you sow_ , Lou Reed tells you in that slightly sneering, mocking tone of his.

Yeah.

**Andy {Epilogue}**

“Really? _You_ will come on RIDE? Promise you're not shitting me!”

The genuine delight in Norman's voice on the other end of the telephone is beyond touching. You'd no idea how much you taking part in his show meant to him until now.

“I promise!” you laugh. “Just don't go all Evel Knievel on me, okay?”

He snorts down the line at you.

“Well I can't speak for Jeffrey, but you're in safe hands with me...”

_Don't I know it_ , you want to growl but now is not the time nor place. Instead you tell him to make sure he can stay for dinner, you'll cook him and the crew something amazing.

Hanging up, you feel almost bashful at the thought of Norman seeing the winter-in-England version of you, in your flat cap and wax jacket, playing the role of Country Gent. It's a role that you mould easily into every hiatus, but you're aware that compared to someone like Norman, it's deeply, deeply uncool. Similarly, it'll be rather odd seeing him shivering in the middle of the British countryside in his motorcycle gear and snapback. Like worlds that shouldn't really mix suddenly colliding.

You go to the local farm shop, coming home laden down with steaks, floury potatoes and a massive wedge of _Gruyure. You grab_ six good bottles of Cabernet from the cellar, roll up your shirt sleeves, and get to work in your large rustic kitchen. Your heart's thudding happily as you drizzle olive oil over home-grown root vegetables in the roasting tin, and you decide to treat yourself to a large glass of wine right now. You can always get another bottle later.

You'll end it soon with him, you tell yourself as you take the first sip. Just a little bit longer won't do any harm. Just a few more times of having him look at you the way he does, like you're the most fascinating person in the world, like you're the best person he's ever met. Or so he tells you.

The wine is good; blackcurrant and mint flavours rolling around on your tongue. You take another drink and wonder if you still have your secret stash of cigarettes. In your mind's eye you can see them, taped to the underside of a shelf in your potting shed. Three Marlboro Gold in a crumpled box, just waiting for the times when you need one.

Your ringtone snaps you out of your thoughts. It's Norman again, and for a second your stomach churns at the thought that perhaps he's cancelling.

“Sorry man, was with the crew earlier so I couldn't tell you something,” he says huskily.

“Oh really? What?”

“Just wanted to tell you – _fuck you_. Like, a lot.”

You break into a grin.

“Fuck you too, Norman.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is finally completed, after a long, 7 month slog. This one has definitely been a labour of love, and required as much alcohol as Norman and Andy drink in this. I'm definitely not happy with large sections, and it could do with some trimming down, but what the hell.
> 
> I'll aim to post the remaining 2 chapters within the next week or so, but of course comments will encourage me to post them quicker! I would so appreciate comments as l really have thrown everything at this one.
> 
> Thank you for reading if you made it this far.


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